Of Costumes Past
by Cardio Necrosis
Summary: What do tranvestites, sluts, and gay stripper fantasies have in common? Pretty much nothing.


**Disclaimer:** I do not own House. If I did, I'd be rich.

**Warning:** Spoilers for late season five. The story takes place in season six, but it's not spoiler-y.

Of Costumes Past

"Do you remember that time I went as Doctor Frankenfurter for Halloween?" House asked as he slid the blue beanie on his head, patting the yellow poof-ball on top. Normally, House wasn't much into holidays--it was all commercialism and idiotic twaddle--but come on, what wasn't fun about dressing up and getting hyped up on free sugar? It was the one night a year where people were actually encouraged to party, be someone they weren't, and get as mischievous as possible.

Plus, any tradition that allowed hot women to dress scantily without repercussions was fine by him.

"Despite many attempts to purge it from my memory? Yes," Wilson answered, slipping into the coat House had picked out for him (and paid for with Wilson's credit card.)

"It wasn't that bad."

"You're right. It was far worse."

"Stacy seemed to like it," House countered, reaching into his pocket and pulling out some gloves Technically, he knew he should be wearing mittens, but he preferred to keep his fingers free. He'd never liked caging his fingers together--he liked the ability to wiggle and grasp onto his cane comfortably. "She said I looked hot."

"Hmm, well, I've always thought Stacy had questionable taste," Wilson responded with a smirk and a glance in his direction, the coat hanging on him like dead weight while he smoothed it down.

House glared at his friend good-naturedly. "Cuddy thought it was hot, too. She wouldn't stop staring at me."

Wilson looked at himself in the mirror, lifting the green mittens in front of his face, nose crinkling in distaste at the particular shade. "Hate to break it to you, but it wasn't with lust. Nobody but Tim Curry can pull that look off, as much as you may think otherwise."

"Are you saying you think Tim Curry is hot?"

"Yes, House. I'm gushing madly over his shapely thighs and legs up to his chin." He rolled his eyes and slipped his hands into the mittens. He flexed them experimentally.

"I knew you were gay."

Wilson pointed at him, which looked ridiculous with his fingers all bunched together and fluffy. "I'm not the one who dressed up in a corset and nylons."

"No, you just went as a gay man's stripper fantasy."

"A fireman is not a gay stripper fantasy."

"You wear flamboyant yellow leather and slide up an down poles," House informed with a leer, buttoning his red coat nimbly, long fingers flexible in his snug, yellow gloves. He could sense Wilson's envious stare at the ease and dexterity he did up his coat, and snickered to himself. That would teach him for insisting on perfection and getting the mittens instead of the gloves.

"It's a respectable profession and--"

"It's gay."

Wilson huffed. "Being a fireman is _not_ gay."

"I never said it was. I said dressing up as one and dancing around is."

"Bonnie thought it was hot," Wilson murmured as he attempted to do up his coat, the green clashing against the orange of his coat. His mittens kept slipping so that he couldn't get a grip on the buttons.

"Bonnie is clearly deranged," he stated wisely.

Wilson didn't deny it. In fact, he nodded imperceptibly in agreement. He was still glaring evilly at the buttons, unable to do it up, and House sighed in annoyance. He stepped forward and quickly did it for him. "Still, that was a fun party. I remember--Cuddy was a slut," he reminisced as he did up the last one, so that it fit snugly around Wilson's neck.

"She dressed like a female genie," Wilson corrected good-naturedly, and entirely missed the point.

"I wasn't talking about her costume," House explained further.

Wilson smoothed his hand down the fastened coat, then looked at himself in the mirror. "Yes, that joke never gets old."

"I can't believe you remembered what she wore."

"She was hot," he admitted with a shrug, then slipped on the ridiculous looking hat, bits of brown hair sticking underneath the fuzzy green.

"You were married."

"You were with Stacy!" he defended, his voice going a notch higher than necessary, and his brown eyes widening.

House smirked at him one more time, before turning back to the mirror, and rearranging the sky-blue hat on his head. "But I didn't go over and start chatting her up, either. The way you two were at it, I thought you were going to start humping right there on the floor in front of everyone."

"I was _not_ flirting. I was just . . . Socializing."

"Socializing with the intent of taking a five minute break in a nearby closet, maybe." He jerked his head in the direction of door before he turned the doorknob and pushed it open.

"Forty minutes in her office, actually."

House froze. "Oh my God." He turned around to look at Wilson, who looked ridiculous in a green hat and mittens with the un-matching orange coat and completely blank face. It was sometimes difficult to read Wilson's emotions--he had no idea if he was being serious or kidding. "You're not serious. Are you? Tell me you're not serious."

"Fine. I'm not serious," he said dully, then walked past House and out of the bathroom.

House stood there, alone, for all of two seconds, then he quickly limped (sans cane) after him, the thick, red coat heavier than he liked, and somewhat constricting his movements. "Yes you are!" he accused, a very unwanted visual of Wilson and Cuddy reproducing and having annoyingly attractive Jewish babies with a penchant to put their hands on their hips and make Uncle Greg's difficult.

The very idea of little children calling him Uncle Greg was enough to give him nightmares, and the fact it almost made him halfway smile made him consider locking himself back up in Mayfield.

"Yes. I am," he deadpanned.

"Seriously?"

Wilson scoffed and grabbed his car keys. "Of course not, House. As you said, I _was_ married."

"Oh, please. Like that ever stopped you before," he reminded, still unsure of Wilson's history with Cuddy, and grabbed his cane from leaning against the back of Wilson's couch.

Wilson opened the door for House, which had somehow become customary and routine in their friendship. House strolled out of his apartment and into the hallway, not even waiting for Wilson as he continued his trek to the elevator.

"True. But not with her. She's my boss," Wilson continued when he hurried up to walk beside him. One of Wilson's neighbours stared at them with an eyebrow perched annoyingly high.

"So?" he asked before sticking his tongue out at the middle-aged hag, who just huffed in annoyance and went on her way down the hall.

"Office relationships never work."

"Ours does," he pointed out, using his cane to jab the call button.

"You know what I meant. Office romances. Things would get complicated and--and I just don't want to go there."

"So, you won't sleep with your boss, but you'll work your way through the entire nursing staff?"

"I haven't slept with the entire nursing staff," Wilson defended, sounding very much like a little child being criticised for not finishing his homework.

"You slept with half, then."

"I did not!"

"Fifteen?" he guessed brightly, just as the door dinged open. A mother and a father brushed past them, and their teen son (wearing an orange hoody tightly secured around his face) laughed pointedly at their costumes.

Wilson smiled at the teen, then they both stepped into the empty elevator. "No, House," he answered, pressing the ground floor. He pursed his lips tightly and placed his hands on his hips impatiently, the door closing.

"Seven," he threw out, watching Wilson's reaction closely as the elevator started going down.

His cheeks burned red. "House, this is ridiculous, I did not--"

"Eight." Wilson shifted his weight from one foot to another, and cleared his throat delicately. "Ha! You're a slut!"

"And you're an ass," he ground out, rubbing the back of his neck shyly.

House beamed at him. "A very perceptive ass."

"But an ass, just the same."

The elevator halted a bit too suddenly for House's tastes and his stomach lurched unpleasantly. The doors opened with an annoying flourish and they both stepped out. "So, why not Cuddy then?" he asked, not seeing any real reason why Wilson wouldn't want to have sex with her (if he indeed hadn't.)

"It's . . . difficult," he evaded as they strolled across the foyer.

"You have lunch with her every Tuesday--"

"Not _every_ Tuesday," he rushed to add.

"--and you talk to her every day and she's hot. What's different?"

"It's nothing," he dismissed, smiling in polite greeting to someone dressed as what looked like a very slutty female version of Captain America, and the guy dressed as Iron Man beside her didn't seem very enthused with the way her eyes trailed over Wilson's body.

"Why wouldn't you--"

"Drop it," he insisted, with a very serious glare that meant he really ought not to push the subject.

Which of course only made it far more interesting.

"No, I'm not going to drop it. What's wrong with Cuddy?" he asked, peering at him intensely.

Wilson scoffed and shook his head, lips pursed even tighter together as he stared down at the floor. "There's nothing _wrong_ with her; I just . . ." He froze and House stopped, staring at him expectantly. House could almost see the gears in his head, churning, and the internal struggle of just coming right out and telling him the truth, or hiding it from him and hoping House wouldn't eventually drag it out of him. "It's nothing," he settled with a small head-shake, then continued walking towards the exit.

"It's something."

"Just drop it, House," he ordered as he pushed open the door so they could both leave.

It took House until he was outside, the door closed and flecks of snow falling gently around them, making House grateful that they were wearing such thick coats, for it to click. His cane slipped in the snow when he stopped, the thought striking him so suddenly his head reeled and his mouth dropped open. "Oh my God. You . . . You _like_ Cuddy! You . . . You have feelings for her. You . . ."

Wilson sighed as if House had somehow missed something incredibly important. "It's not that."

"So you _don't_ like her?" he pressed on, hurrying alongside Wilson on his way towards his girly Volvo.

"No, I do, I like her, just . . . not like that."

"Then why?"

Wilson pulled out his keys, then attempted to press the button to unlock the car. It did absolutely nothing, and he tried again. House stared at him expectantly, half-amused at the fact he couldn't unlock his car because of the mittens, but mostly curious as to why someone with as excellent panty-peeling abilities as Wilson wouldn't have sex with a very willing and very sexy woman in need of good little Jewish boy. And a really great lay in the sack--which, according to Bonnie, Wilson could also provide.

After the fourth failure at unlocking the door, Wilson sighed. "You're going to make me say it, aren't you?"

"Of course."

"You like her," he stated, and he very nearly sounded ashamed.

House was past denying the fact he did; hell, he'd hallucinated having sex with her and had gone to Mayfield because of it. It would be pointless to lie. That didn't mean he had to openly admit it, though.

"What, you don't cross swords?" he asked casually instead, taking the car keys and unlocking the Volvo for him, since he had proper gloves.

After the bleeps, Wilson took the keys back with a grateful nod. "It's more than crossing swords. It's more than sex, House. What you feel . . . I wouldn't do that to you."

The way Wilson said it, he may as well have told him he loved him. It was true, and they both knew it. Seeing as House didn't really like doing the whole warm-fuzzy embrace-your-emotions thing, he understood why Wilson didn't want to bring up the topic. He didn't date Cuddy because he knew House liked her, even if he may have been interested--and of course he was. Wilson had eyes and a brain; but he also had a heart, and the fact he would give up a good piece of ass for House's benefit was just one of the many ways he showed he cared about him.

For a minute, House found his own costume utterly fascinating. He stared at the way little specks of white dotted the red fabric, each individual snowflake laid bare for his inspection until it melted and soaked into his coat. They were best friends (anybody with eyes could see that) but Wilson had a way of telling him that without saying the words, and even if it wasn't verbal, he could still feel it.

After a second, House nodded at him--either in thanks, or acceptance, or as a way of saying that, yeah, he loved him too--he didn't know, but none of the options were wrong. Wilson got into the driver's side, and House quietly walked around the front of the car so he could get into the passenger seat. He shut the door, the atmosphere inside the car no warmer or colder than the outside.

They locked eyes and smiled briefly.

"Your ushanka is crooked," he told him, gesturing at it with his chin.

Wilson smiled that little half-smile that let House know he understood, then looked in the rear-view mirror, fixing the hat so it was settled on his head appropriately. "Now, who am I again?" he asked.

"Kyle," House answered in his best 'duh' voice. "I'm Cartman."

"Obviously," he muttered.

They smiled at each other, like two kids on their way to their first sleep-over in grade-school; excited, but too mature to admit that they actually were looking forward to the mandatory costume party.

"Well come on, you sneaky Jew-rat, let's get this party rolling." Wilson rolled his eyes at the obligatory (and totally inappropriate) anti-Semitic remark. "I've got it on good authority that Cuddy isn't dressing up this year," he said, drumming his fingers on his thigh.

"I thought she was going as the devil?" he asked, sliding the keys into the ignition.

"Like I said, she's not--" Something in the back of his mind clicked. "Wait."

"What?"

"I didn't like her back then. I was with Stacy, and you . . ."

Wilson smiled that completely evil smile that only he could pull off, and his eyes darkened lecherously at a memory that might not be real, and once again, images of good-looking but manipulative children entered his mind at rapid speed. "We should get going. We're going to be late," he suggested ominously, revving the engine.

"You slut!" House exclaimed, and they were off.

* * *

A/N--Yeah, I meant to post this on Saturday but I had internet issues. So, Happy (belated) Halloween!


End file.
